


Interval

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, F/F, Gunplay, Inline with canon, Needles, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, needleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The point of this is not the speed but the experience itself, and Machi goes so slowly she could be setting the stitches by hand rather than with the focus of her mind." Pakunoda and Machi take an interval to themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interval

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shonenshamecube](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shonenshamecube).



Pakunoda is very good at waiting. It’s a crucial element to tailing a mark, the ability to wait patiently until the target continues moving, the ability to stay still and silence and unseen before resuming the more active chase. There is a peace to it, a sense of calm that suffuses her body and steadies her thoughts into a timeless lull of waiting. So she knows what she’s looking for, is sliding into the almost-trance of calm distance even before Machi has pulled her  _Nen_  into existence.

It doesn’t hurt, when Machi starts to thread the strands into Pakunoda’s back. Or, at least, if it does hurt it’s so far off and so mild that it doesn’t register as pain properly, just a faintly uncomfortable tug at her skin as the other woman runs lines of  _Nen_  across her back as if she’s lacing up a corset. Machi can be very fast -- Pakunoda has seen her reattach limbs, sew up wounds that ought to be fatal into what eventually become clean scars in a matter of seconds. But the point of this is not the speed but the experience itself, and Machi goes so slowly she could be doing it by hand rather than with the focus of her mind. Pakunoda can feel the tug of the other woman’s thoughts against her skin, the pressure of  _Nen_  dragging against her nerve endings as if Machi is climbing into her, pricking herself into the taller woman’s bloodstream and floating alongside the cool calm of Pakunoda’s blood, a symbiotic observer bringing tingling heat with her.

Pakunoda wishes, sometimes, that she could see Machi work. Sometimes the younger woman will work across her chest, or work out patterns like embroidery across the blonde’s arms, but it’s harder for Pakunoda to maintain the mental distance while she’s watching, harder to stay still when the other woman’s skin and shoulders and mouth are so close to be touched and licked and kissed, and in the end it’s better to do it this way anyway, to let Machi focus on her work while Pakunoda focuses on the sensation, the tingling certainty of Machi’s influence under her skin.

With her own body languid with forced relaxation, it’s easy, too, to step sideways, to let Machi’s own focus slide into her thoughts through the contact of the other woman’s thighs against Pakunoda’s hips, the gentle press of fingers against the blond’s back. Machi is a comfort in this as in everything; even with nothing but skin between them, even with the warm awareness of the situation floating in the back of her mind, the other woman’s mind is perfectly orderly, focused and sharp as a needle and entirely dedicated to her current task. Pakunoda can feel the shift in Machi’s perspective, when she stops thinking of the blonde as a person and only sees the canvas on her skin. It’s beautiful, to be considered with so much potential.

It takes minutes, hours, a lifetime. Pakunoda’s not sure; time draws long and syrupy as she lies still, until when Machi’s hands leave her skin it takes a moment to slide consciousness back into her veins, to recall how to move and shift and exist in her body again. When she does move it is slow and careful, gentle to leave the  _Nen_  stitches where they are even as the movement of muscle under her skin draws unfamiliar tension over her shoulders and the tight-drawn skin of her back.

“Perfect,” Machi says from behind her, all the satisfaction of an artist rolling low in her voice. When Pakunoda turns around the other woman looks exhausted, her arms hanging limp with the release of long-held tension of control, and when the blonde steps forward to set her fingers against Machi’s face the other woman tips her head up for the expected kiss without moving her hands at all. Her lips are soft and warm, passive and receptive to the press of the blonde’s mouth and tasting faintly of the mint gum she sometimes chews. Pakunoda is as careful about the kiss as she is about the movement of her shoulders; there’s no need to rush, no need to be sloppy with haste when just for now they have all the time in the world. Machi goes warm under Pakunoda’s touch, melts into the warm softness she never shows to anyone else in the Troupe. There are appearances to be maintained, expectations to meet; Pakunoda is sure all of them are keeping facades, playing with their presentations as much as she knows she does, but Machi is the only one she cares enough about to pull open like urging the petals of a flower into bloom.

The other woman is pliant now that her work is done; she lets Pakunoda turn her with gentle pressure at her shoulders, slides back until she can take the taller woman’s place lying across the bed while Pakunoda sweeps flushing reaction over the other’s skin with her touch, watches the pink of sensation trail behind the gentle scrape of her fingernails until Machi’s skin is as pink as her hair.

“You’re beautiful,” Pakunoda offers, gentle and soft. Machi takes a breath, more shaken by this than she is by the blonde’s fingers trailing over her thighs; as Pakunoda watches she swallows, brings one arm up to drape over her flushed cheeks. Pakunoda says this every time, just once, and every time Machi blushes and flinches in instinctive rejection. But every time it’s slower, the response a little more delayed and the belief holding a little longer before doubt creeps in, and someday Pakunoda is going to win a smile from the other woman and she will know she’s won.

It’s not today, though. That’s okay. Machi doesn’t need to believe her in order for it to be true, in order for the anticipatory tremble under her skin to take Pakunoda’s breath away. The blonde reaches out for the sharp curve of Machi’s waist, between the flare of her hips and the heavy weight of her breasts, fits her long fingers into the space so the two of them fit together like they were always meant to.

Machi spreads her legs wider in invitation before Pakunoda has even touched her, makes space for the blonde to step in until the warmth of Machi’s thighs is catching on her skin and lighting her up like winter sunshine. The other woman is shivering, trembling in anticipation before Pakunoda has even properly touched her, and when the blonde draws her free hand up over the soft inside curve of Machi’s leg the other woman jumps in reaction, lets her arm fall from her face so Pakunoda can see her lips parted around a breath, can see the flush too high on her cheeks to be embarrassment.

“Darling,” Pakunoda says, and Machi whimpers open-mouthed as the blonde’s fingers come up to brush over her with the faint promise of more to come. Pakunoda lets her hand slide in from the other woman’s waist, presses her fingers in against Machi’s stomach and up to trail against the sensitive underside of her breast so she trembles; Pakunoda can see the shake ripple through her entire body, like she’s an instrument laid out for the blonde to put back in tune. Pakunoda is still touching her, sliding her hand up to cup the other woman’s breast in her palm when she curls her fingers to slides the very tips of two fingers just inside Machi and brushes her thumb just against the other’s clit. Machi’s hips come up off the support for a moment, arching into the contact in search of more, but Pakunoda’s expecting this and she doesn’t want to rush forward. Machi’s not the only one good at a slow build. So Pakunoda moves slowly, lets the tension patterning her back slow the motion of her limbs until it’s more of a stylized dance, the careful grind of her thumb against the other woman’s skin and the teasing press of her fingers inside Machi. The other woman steadies after a moment, forces her breathing into a smooth pattern that Pakunoda can watch shifting under her skin, each inhale pushing her a little harder into the blonde’s touch.

“Are you ready?” Pakunoda asks finally, once she’s utterly certain of what the answer will be. She has to ask, has to follow the routine as carefully as she follows the demands of the  _Nen_  thread under her skin. The relaxation of submission doesn’t work without absolute trust warm and steady under it, and just because Pakunoda’s guns and Machi’s thread can both be dissolved at a moment’s notice doesn’t make that any less important.

Machi takes a breath, deep and slow and steadying, and Pakunoda can see the other woman force herself into relaxation, let the desperate edge of want flutter free into calm acceptance of whatever sensation the blonde chooses to give her. “I’m ready.”

“Okay,” Pakunoda says, her voice low and calm and soothing, and draws her hand free, leaves Machi shivering with the buzz of anticipation while the blonde shuts her eyes, draws her  _Nen_  into her mind and lets the electricity of the focus slide down her arm to form in her hand. For a moment there’s a tingle across her back, Machi’s lingering  _Nen_  humming in response to the blonde’s own as if they’re bleeding into each other, interlacing their energy like pressing their fingertips against each other. Then Pakunoda’s unformed energy solidifies, condenses into the weight of a gun in her palm, and she carefully wraps her hand around the handle with her fingers well clear of the trigger. There’s no real danger even if it goes off; the worst that will happen is Machi will get a burst of information from the blonde. That’s happened before too, deliberately at Machi’s request, but that’s not what they agreed upon today so Pakunoda keeps her hand clear of the trigger as she brings the weapon in to brush the metal against the other woman’s thigh.

With her hand against Machi’s skin Pakunoda can feel the jittery almost-nerves of anticipation drop into relaxation, the other woman’s speeding thoughts evaporating into the peace of expectation. Pakunoda recognizes that peace from her own thoughts a few minutes ago, lets the calm wash comfort into her own tight-drawn skin as she glides the edge of the gun up the inside of Machi’s leg.

Machi shifts, like she’s trying to get more comfortable, and Pakunoda pauses, looks up to gauge her reaction. The other woman is staring at the ceiling, lips parted around her breathing and expression abstracted. Pakunoda wants to kiss her, wishes she were close enough to lean in and run her tongue against the soft curve of the other woman’s lip. But she’s not, and she has to stay in control right now, so she just takes a breath and asks, “Are you okay?”

Machi nods slowly. “The metal’s warm, did you know?”

Pakunoda didn’t. She always thought that was from the heat of her own hand, her body’s warmth bleeding into the naturally chill metal. It makes her smile without thinking through the expression, with no intention of causing any kind of a reaction other than expressing her own.

“No,” she says, “I didn’t” and draws the gun up higher, tips it so she can drag the textured top of the barrel over Machi’s clit. The other woman sucks in a breath, arches up off the bed to press into the friction, and when Pakunoda presses down harder and draws the gun across Machi’s skin the other woman shudders visibly.

“Relax,” Pakunoda reminds, and Machi visibly steadies herself to drop back to the bed. The tension is still humming under her skin, repressed rather than removed, but Pakunoda knows not to ask for the impossible. Besides, there is a rush to be had from watching Machi’s cool composure melt away under her touch, to sliding her fingers up so Machi’s nipple tightens under her fingers while the blonde lets the gun drop to press tantalizing against the other woman’s entrance. She hesitates for a moment, watching Machi shiver with barely-repressed tension, a visual expression of the stitching taunt against her back; then Machi whimpers, a barely-audible wordless plea, and Pakunoda tips his wrist, angles the barrel of the  _Nen_ -formed gun, and slides it into the other woman in one smooth motion.

All the tension in Machi’s body drains out of her as she groans and drops back to the bed. The sound draws long and low, reverberating until she hits a resonance Pakunoda only ever hears from her in moments like this. It makes her smile, easy and without thinking, she can feel her expression going soft even though Machi’s eyes are shut as if to focus her attention on the heat Pakunoda can see flushing over her skin.

“Paku,” she manages when the blonde doesn’t move, and Pakunoda’s name sounds like heavy syrup in that voice. “Paku,  _move_ ,  _please_.”

Pakunoda doesn’t speak. She can feel Machi’s reaction under her fingers better than she can make sense of the wash of heat from the incoherency of the other woman’s thoughts. When she draws the gun back and thrusts back in her movements are perfectly steady, carefully controlled in contrast to the way Machi jerks and moans. The other woman brings her arm back up over her face -- she’s flushing with pleasure and self-consciousness in equal parts, as she always does, but when her eyes shut and her cheeks hidden her mouth is uncovered, her lips parted around instant response to the movement of the blonde’s hand and offering the best encouragement Pakunoda could want. She lets her touch on Machi’s breast go in favor of bringing her thumb down to press against the other’s clit, giving pressure against the push of the barrel of the gun in her other hand, and Machi sighs like Pakunoda is giving her life.

It’s a slow process. Machi gets desperate before Pakunoda really starts, but once she’s getting the sensation she needs she can wait as long as the blonde chooses to take. Today it’s minutes, a slow rise of heat so Pakunoda can watch Machi’s skin color with rising heat, can watch the way the other woman’s thighs start to tremble with anticipation even as she stays flat on the bed. The blonde doesn’t move her thumb, just keeps up the steady thrust of the gun, and by the time she’s considering more Machi is panting for breath, arm still draped over her face like she’s forgotten it’s there.

“Machi,” Pakunoda says levelly. She can feel the movement of her shoulder as she moves her hand a little faster, a little harder, the thread drawing tight with every movement as if to compensate for Machi’s deeper relaxation. “Move your arm.”

It’s a suggestion rather than an order, but Machi obeys instantly anyway. She must be terribly close, to show her face without any hesitation in the movement. Pakunoda can see the softness at the corners of her shut eyes, the flush high all pleasure now with no space left over for shyness, and when the blonde says “Look at me,” Machi does, her lashes parting so she can fix her glazed gaze on the other woman’s face.

“Do you want more?” Pakunoda asks, and Machi nods, jerky with the impending inevitability. Pakunoda’s fairly certain she could go still, wait out the other woman’s orgasm entirely at this point, but that’s too passive for her mood today. So she draws back, thrusts forward hard with the gun, harder than before, and while Machi’s eyes are going wide with the sensation she moves her thumb, twists friction against the sensitive nerve endings under her hand. The other woman gasps, collapses back to the bed, and Pakunoda can see the ripple of pleasure wash under her skin even before Machi’s whimpered groan makes it to her ears.

Pakunoda stays still while the other woman shivers through her orgasm; there’s a moment when she thinks Machi is going to lose her hold on her  _Nen_ , even, when the tight edge of pain across her back goes slack for a moment as the other woman’s focus slides away. There is a breath of hesitation, clinging to the edge between control and submission to the pleasure; then Machi whines, closes her mouth hard, and the thread pulls tight, tighter than it was before so Pakunoda is the one distracted, has to take a deep slow breath and wait for her composure to return.

“Jesus,” Machi finally says. She sounds shaken, the word drags slow and careful over her tongue as if she needs to think about every syllables. “ _Ah_. Okay, I’m...you can let go.”

Pakunoda slides her hand free, rather than lifting it, just so she can see the last shiver run through the other woman’s body. Withdrawing the gun brings Machi arching up off the bed, hissing in almost-pain at the sensation before the barrel is free and Pakunoda lets her  _Nen_  go so the weight in her fingers dissolves.

“How are you?” she asks. Machi is already pushing herself upright, determination in the line of her mouth even though her hands are shaking, and when she reaches out to curl her fingers against the back of the blonde’s neck Pakunoda lets herself be drawn into a kiss, parts her lips so Machi’s tongue can dip in and slide warm over her own. There’s that mint again, cool and sweet at the back of Pakunoda’s mouth; the blonde settles her hands gentle at the curve of Machi’s hips, lets the other woman’s motion draw her around, although for a moment she needs to offer steadying support as Machi gets her feet under her.

“I’ve got it,” Machi insists, but she’s smiling against the blonde’s shoulder, leaning in to imprint the warmth of her lips on Pakunoda’s skin as she tips forward to rest her weight on the blonde’s hold. The heat sends a shiver prickling through Pakunoda’s skin, makes her smile as Machi steers her back to the bed. Pakunoda lets the other woman go, carefully reaches behind herself to brace herself upright so she won’t fall to her back. The angle is a strain for her shoulders but it’s better than trying to keep upright without support, she knows from experience.

Machi works her way down the blonde’s body slowly, leaving a trail of mint-cool kisses at random points against the other woman’s skin as she comes down to her knees. She keeps her chin down so when Pakunoda looks down all she can see is the pink fall of Machi’s hair, the very tip of her nose. Then Machi leans in, licks warm over Pakunoda, and the blonde’s head drops back without thinking and she stops thinking about what she can or can’t see. When she angles her legs farther apart Machi leans in closer, pushes harder with her tongue so Pakunoda laughs weakly and has to lock out her elbows to stay upright.

Machi is less careful in this than with her thread, less careful than Pakunoda is when their positions are reversed. It’s a relief, to let someone else take charge, to have sensation wash over her without the specificity of Pakunoda’s own deliberate accuracy. Pakunoda can’t tell what exactly Machi is doing -- something with her tongue, mostly, but there’s occasionally the faint pressure of the edge of teeth, and when the other woman presses her lips in hard and sucks Pakunoda shivers so hard the stitches against her back pull tight like they’re holding her steady. That makes Machi smile, Pakunoda can feel the pressure in her mouth without even seeing, and then the other woman lets her hand on the inside of the blonde’s thigh come inside so she can angle her hand and push a pair of fingers into the blonde all at once.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pakunoda hisses. Her hold wobbles, one arm nearly gives out, and then as she’s recovering herself Machi starts to thrust her fingers, and it’s all but over at that point. There’s just another few moments of trembling wrists, Pakunoda wondering distantly if she’s going to fall back to the bed after all. Then Machi starts to hum against her skin; then the other woman flicks her tongue just against Pakunoda’s clit, and curls her fingers as she angles them in deeper, and Pakunoda sighs, and shuts her eyes, and relaxes into the shudder of pleasure that pours through her body.

Machi waits until the blonde takes a deep breath and lets it out more-or-less smoothly before she lets the stitches go. They cling for a moment; then the pressure loosens, evaporates into nothing while Pakunoda’s skin tingles with the loss of tension. Machi pulls back, sighs warm over Pakunoda’s skin as she slides her fingers free and leans sideways to kiss the inside of the blonde’s leg. Pakunoda smiles, reaches out to tangle her fingers in pink curls so she can feel Machi’s lips curve against her skin.

They both stay quiet. In the silence, time stands still for a moment, hesitation keeping reality at bay a little longer. And that is more precious than anything else they can offer each other.


End file.
